Itadakimasu
by SavageGardener
Summary: How do you handle disappointment; how can you forget your own failures? Something so simple, but how can it hurt so much? GOJYO X HAKKAI


Hallo.

Not feeling so hot right now; is it humanly possible to sneeze eleven times in the space of two hours? It shouldn't be. When they say your nose drips like a faucet, it was true. Rather, it IS true. I'm in hell.

:sigh: There is no God, and if there is he's out to screw me.

Well, enjoy the fanfic. I was inspired by a line from The Hours, a book by Michael Cunningham.

"She will kill herself, probably, over some trifle…"

Yeah. I just wanted to write something along those lines, but I think I've deviated greatly from my first idea.

Ooh! And I have Author's notes for the first time! I'll put them at the top because I don't want them at the end, kay?

1 What the hell is shoyu? 'Tis soy sauce, ma chere!

2 'Yuki' is Japanese for snow. Also, it is a girl's name. So, now do you get the… ah… 'joke'? Still don't? Yeah… it's not funny.

DISCLAIMER: Saiyuki. Don't own it. Ah yes! And the basic ingredient list came from a Betty Crocker's International Cookbook.

SPOILERS: Err… no.

WARNIGNS: Language, I think. I can't remember. And, of course, shounen-ai and mentions of sex. Ooh… quite brazen, aren't I?

* * *

Itadakimasu

The air is clear and beautiful, and I inhale deeply just to feel something of that static, frigid shock of a cold morning in the snow. It is marvelous; a moment, this moment, this cold morning walking in the snow with grocery bags and a smile; taking a breath; holding myself upright.

It is rare that I have this sort of solitude, and I am thankful for the snow that clings to my shoes and makes my tread slow. I am thankful for everything in this moment. Marvelous, I think again, just because I wanted to hear it.

"Marvelous," I say aloud, because it is the sort of word that is fun to say to nothing. "Marvelous," again for good measure.

Sanzo said we would be here for several days, as the weather has prevented us from continuing any further until the snow dissipates. Not that he, our worldly, unorthodox monk, is terribly happy about this delay. He grunted an affirmative, then disappeared into the light of dawn in search of, I assume, a fresh pack of cigarettes.

I really must dedicate myself to keeping them away from that horrific habit. Sanzo and Gojyo both, I tell myself, never mind that I have thought it, said it, so many times before. I shall succeed some day, and on that day, I will truly savor the exact time they put down their cigarettes for the last time.

Yet, I do not think I could imagine Gojyo without his crutch, his vice, in his hand, between his fingers, being waved around as he makes a point or dangling between his lips as he leans in closer to me.

Gojyo…

I look down at my arms, now entirely filled with shopping bags. I take a deep, solid breath and hold it, savoring the scent of fresh vegetables and meat. There are, after all, advantages to shopping early.

The early bird gets the worm, I suppose.

I continue on my path to our inn, and begin laughing for no real reason. It's just very nice to laugh on a cold, brilliant morning.

My feet leave tracks in the newly fallen snow.

And I am thankful for it.

* * *

I am ever thankful that the inn Sanzo chose actually has a small, neat kitchenette in each of the rooms. A stove, small refrigerator, microwave, oven. It's all here, and quite charming in its homeliness. It almost reminds me of… 

Of that little shack of a house Gojyo had bought long before I turned up. It reminds me of the shoddy state of his kitchen, the way nothing had been touched since he had first moved in. His cabinets were stock full of ramen packages and frozen dinners and cockroaches. Oh yes, let's not forget the ungodly amount of alcohol stashed away in each crevice. It reminded me of the way a squirrel stores acorns for winter.

I looked at it, the massive volume of beer, and inquired as to whether he was saving for the apocalypse.

He had shrugged and given me a pointed look.

'Somthin' like that.'

The bags hit the counter with a firm _thump_, and I set about at once to readying the room without much reason to do so, other than because I desired it clean and impeccable.

Rooming with Gojyo again for the night. Happiness again. It never rains but pours.

I shiver.

Gojyo will be surprised that I had taken such care with the meal, and perhaps, if I ask him, of course, he will refrain from going out to the bar tonight. Perhaps I can convince him that a nice night of cards will be just as entertaining.

Yes. A nice night of cards.

His bag is a mess, I think, and set about immediately to fixing it.

Goodness, he has not changed since we lived together all that time ago. Still a mess maker, still a brute, still a rogue.

And that's what I lo-

Ah. What I like about him.

Gojyo will appreciate what I have done for him. Yes, he most certainly will.

He needs someone like me to take care of him. And I must thank him for what he has done for me, for what he has done to me. Even if I still watch the rain, his hair is so lovely. He lets me touch it, and I think that deserves a warm, nice meal.

He needs someone to pick up his messes, to tell him not to put so much sugar in his tea.

It's a wonder he can even taste the tea at all through that haze of sweetness. Another unhealthy habit he might be more inclined to kick one of these days. When we get back to the house.

I'll bet it's terribly dusty in there. We have been gone for… for almost a year now. Something like that. I made Gojyo put sheets over all the furniture while we were gone, but I don't suppose that would help much.

I chuckle and I reach for the shoyu. 1

My breath leaves fog in the chill.

Sukiyaki will be perfect, I think. Snowing, cold, sukiyaki. They all go hand in hand.

I rub my hands together quickly, and then smile. Gojyo once told me that there was 'Nothing like sukiyaki from our Hakkai!'

Gojyo…

I want to make him happy. And Sanzo and Goku, of course. Yes, I want to make them all very happy. That's why I am doing this. To make them all happy.

But if I could just get Gojyo to look at me and say that he loves it, then I will be satisfied.

I feel domestic as I begin cutting the mushrooms, careful not to make them too thin, as Gojyo prefers them thicker than usual. I feel like a mother hen taking care of her chicks. Or perhaps like a housewife tending to her husband.

Startled, I look up. Housewife? Me? No. Gojyo would never want me to be…

Perhaps he would like a warm meal now and then…

Nothing like sukiyaki from our Hakkai, right?

Best to cut these vegetables fresh so they will be crisp. I have a lot of work ahead of me for today.

Gojyo, I hope you like it.

Housewife… what a pleasant thought. If you would like me to be…

* * *

I am still cutting the food, but I have made it to the bamboo now. It feels like I have been doing this for hours, and I probably have. Symmetry is key, after all, to a beautiful meal.

The door opens, and I look up into a pair of crimson eyes.

"Ah! Gojyo!" I cry, perhaps a bit too happily. I freeze, then look down and pretend to be absorbed in my activities.

"Hey, 'Kai, guess who I met downstairs?"

I pause, thinking.

"Kanzeon Bosatsu?"

Chuckling, he reaches for a cigarette.

"Naw! I met Yuki!"

"Ah yes. I believe I still have some 'yuki' on my shoes from my early walk." 2

Chopping the vegetables, he doesn't see me. I bow my head, intent, again, on perfecting this meal for him, making him come back for seconds and thirds and then asking to lick the spatula. It will be that good, and then he will ask for me to cook every night, and he'll never go out to those seedy bars again, so long as I can keep the sukiyaki flowing.

Wait, did he say Yuki? I thought that was a woman's name…

"Very funny. I'd introduce ya, but she's kinda shy, so… Anyway, she said something about making me dinner."

Dinner…? The kind you eat? The kind someone sets in front of your face and then you consume it with a quick, 'itadakimasu!'

Itadakimasu.

Gochisosama.

That kind of dinner?

"Oh? Is that so? So you won't be eating with us?" The knife slips from my hands, but he's smoking, focusing his energies on the gentle inhalation of those fumes.

I really must…

make him stop.

You know, before he gets hurt.

"Yeah! And she's making sukiyaki!"

Ah.

That is the kind of dinner.

The exact kind of dinner. Even though…

You told me once. Nothing like…

Something stops somewhere in me or around me or maybe I am the only one that is stopping-

I don't bother to look over at the table where the ingredients had already been laid out in preparation, or to the apron the innkeeper had leant me, hanging unassumingly on the door handle. The Mahjong set is waiting on the table, the pieces counted with none missing.

I don't bother to look over these details or to point them out. They are all there, down to the way the tablecloth is ironed. If he doesn't see them, if he doesn't stop like I have, then I suppose it is meaningless to show them to him anyway.

I am not, after all, his housewife, attending to the home until he comes back then leading him around by the hand, pointing to everything made tidy just to gain something of thanks. I'm not expecting a loving peck on the cheek and a hand on my own.

"Ah." I say. I can't look up at him, because my face will betray me. I can feel something like a tremor in my voice.

"Yeah. You don't mind, do you?" He asks, his voice slow and amiable and luscious in the cold brisk air, oblivious to everything around him, wondering with innocence. He observes the room thoughtlessly, admiring the way the wall stops at the floor, the way the door is tilted just so.

And the sun has already shifted down so far in the sky that it would be almost invisible if that garish, crimson light did not betray it.

The color of the sunset washes over us; washes over the two of us, somehow standing without saying anything, somehow existing without the need to. Sukiyaki for dinner tonight, Gojyo, I would love to have you stay for a while.

Acrid smoke in my mouth, blood red color on my mind.

What does it matter? You've made up your mind, haven't you?

Even

the twilight does nothing to sway you. Then:

"Sukiyaki, did you say?" I feel myself swallow hard against the mounting pressure. Why is this happening? It's not like this is going to be a special, romantic dinner with Gojyo or anything so presumptuous as that! I was just going to make something for dinner and we could all sit together; play Mahjong afterwards. I just want to hear them arguing over food that I had cooked because it makes me happy, because it makes them happy…

"She said it's kinda her specialty. Nothing like sukiyaki from a gorgeous woman!"

"_Nothing like sukiyaki from our Hakkai!"_

I hear his feet padding across the room to the door, the hand giving momentary pause.

Please don't go. I want to be warm…

I want to be warm with you.

"Oi, 'Kai, what's this?"

He must be talking about the apron, because I hear something like laughter in his voice.

I force a chuckle, and it feels like it is ripping me to pieces. "Nothing. I was just going to… I… the inn keeper let me borrow it just in case I was going to… well, I was going to make dinner. That's all."

"Oh? Were you going to make something special?" He doesn't turn to see me, and I'm glad. He just pulls curiously at the fabric of the apron as though he has never seen anything like it before in his life.

Are these tears on my face? Not possible. Impossible. They can't be… not over something like this. Must be dust. Allergies or something of the like. Perhaps I should find some eye drops in my medical kit…

"Oh, no. Just the regular stuff. Fried rice and chicken and maybe some meat buns if Goku wants them… nothing… nothing special."

The handle turns; I hear the creaking metal, and then the weight on the floorboards shifts. A draft blows in quickly from the hallway, and I shiver despite myself.

He is leaving-

"Gojyo?"

-Then he stops.

"I… you… please enjoy your dinner." Trembling from the draft, I think.

I can't be happy without you.

"I'm sure I will." I can hear the smirk in his voice and he steps nimbly away from the, our, room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

And I am alone.

Weight seems to be pressing down on me, settling first on my shoulders and on my arms, then dropping lower to my legs, bending my knees and forcing me first to kneel. I move a little; pull myself inward, until my back feels the warm, slick surface of the oven.

Resting is…

…nice. Yes. That's what this is. Resting.

Something is roaring in my ears, my pulse, perhaps, swirling around in them. I think the oven timer is going off, when did I set that thing, but I don't really feel like dealing with that. I think I'd really rather just rest here on the ground for a moment to… to clear my mind. Yes.

The sink faucet drips, the timer beeps, the wind howls outside, all of this noise drumming down around me as though I am caught in the maelstrom of it all, of all this ridiculous domesticated chaos. I want to cry, but I think I will kill myself if I dare to let the tears fall. I feel so…

So stupid.

The heat of the oven makes me shiver; the cold of floor makes me sigh in frustration at the conflicting discomforts.

I feel the tears slipping down my face, but I have no strength to brush them away. He is always the one to do that, to pull me close when the nightmares tried to do the same. Yanking me away from the window whose surface was speckled with raindrops, and to the bed. Pushing me down with his weight, touching my skin, those long fingers directing my gaze to meet his own instead of the downpour outside.

That self-satisfied smirk on his face as I drift into fake slumber. Telling himself, telling me, always telling me, that he had done his job for the night, tired me out for sleep. See ya next time it rains, 'Kai.

He couldn't come to dinner. I start smiling at this, but I don't know why.

Oh dear, oh dear.

It seems too polite a situation, too much a still life of the traditional home. A wife lamenting an absent husband, even as the candlewicks burn low.

Sukiyaki will have to wait, then, for tomorrow night. Of course, Gojyo will not want to eat it two nights in a row, so I suppose I will have to make something else tomorrow. No, he will realize that I have not cooked because he was not present, and his guilt will only increase the pressure already threatening to crush me.

Quite, quite the predicament.

I wonder, for no reason, what it would be like to be buried deep in the earth, to have the soil fill my senses, to be oblivious to the pitter-patter of rain against my roof. Would it be warm in that dark cavern? If I were to be buried in a quiet courtyard surrounded by weeping willows, would he come to see me? Would he lay lilies on my grave and impart upon me his daily happenings as though I were standing before him?

Would the rain wash away my little hovel? Would I be safe from its cruel moisture, or would it trickle down anyway and wrap my body in chill?

And, if I were buried some six feet under the steps of the living, would I have to think of sukiyaki or the width of mushrooms? All of these mortal things would dissipate, I should think, as soon as I took my first, terminal breath of earth.

To be buried deep within the earth, to have only the worms as my company. What, I think slowly, what a romantic sentiment.

My face falls into my hands, and I realize I am shaking.

The celery is already cut, and so are the carrots and onions and mushrooms. The bamboo shoots are still splayed on that charming cutting board, the knife resting precariously among them as though it will be picked up at any moment. The bottle of shoyu is uncapped and waiting; I can smell the salty twang from my seat on the floor.

And, oh, the meat is sliced as well, each thin slip perfectly carved and eager for the sudden, jolting burst of heat and pain from the skillet; the oil.

All of this is waiting, watching me cry on the ground. I know it is there, recognize its presence, but cannot bring myself to return to my chores, and so all of these things, these trivial things, they wait in vain.

Trifles.

What a silly thing to cry about. My dinner. Never mind how I had worked; it was only a dinner.

"_Nothing like sukiyaki from a gorgeous woman!"_

Why does that make me feel so dirty, what he had said?

All of this, all these sensations, sensations of loneliness, pain, disappointment, the sensations of noise and sound and smell and feel, the hard wood against me, all of this coming together in a terrific instant of… of…

Of sensation and why the hell did I leave the shoyu cap off?

I'll close my eyes; I'll sleep forever.

For the love of God, stop shaking like this.

All that time, all those hours, always the hours, all for nothing but the sensations assailing me, all for nothing but the harsh reality of a sinking sun and a sinking heart.

I hear the door open, and I am at once submitted to the onslaught of noise Goku brings in tow. Complaining about this and that, wanting food, his feet hurt, he is hungry, that stinky kappa made fun of him, he wants something to eat.

"Oi. Hakkai. What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, Sanzo, hello." I whisper, my voice suddenly small. I smile at nothing in particular, and it is painful, this smile, letting it stretch out on my face, pulling at the fabric of my skin, tearing at my flesh. I smile, and he probably doesn't even see.

Even see.

"What's wrong?" He asks, no trace of comfort or concern, simply the raw anger he wears on his sleeves, rolling off of him in waves.

I want to be just like him in this instant; I want to stand above all things sentimental and soft and gaze down with fury and wrath and a cold aloofness that always alludes me. I want to shed my regrets and forget every empty promise I have made to others or to myself. It would be such a comfort to live in that life of detachment, so far from the lowly, crawling complications of emotional pain and connection.

To become like ice, to forget those moments when, just moments of course, moments when I could believe that my life is fine, and I am fine. To forget every time I saw the sun and said Ah! yes this is life and this is what I love.

Crying over dinner. What a waste.

It would be so easy, so easy to slip away, if only it was possible.

"I'm afraid that I won't be able to make dinner tonight. Perhaps you could find a suitable restaurant?" I ask weakly.

Crying over dinner. So pathetic.

And I feel sick with myself, with my easily broken hopes. It is such a stupid, silly thing, to call off dinner just because he isn't going to be here. I am being selfish, again, but I can't bring myself to stand up.

I wish the sun would go ahead and set; the color, that striking color, is upsetting me.

Sanzo grunts and, slowly, he moves away. I am glad, because his stare is making me even more uncomfortable in my misery.

"Come on, monkey."

"What's wrong with Hakkai, Sanzo?"

Then, the ultimate blow.

"His fucking husband's left him."

And I am alone. I can't stand it.

My movements are mechanical, slowly deliberate as I pull the trashcan to the counter and begin to scrape those ingredients in. Each thing I had cut is swept away, dropping down into the darkness until I can't see it anymore. The scent still bothers me, but I ignore it.

The cap on the shoyu; the meat in the trash; the oil splashing into the sink; the onions tossed away; the apron thrown into oblivion; the soft illumination of the gas stove switched into night.

The translucence of the water as it washes away at the cutting boards, at the skillet, even if I didn't use it. It all reeks of failure, and I smile and smile and smile at nothing as I scrub at it, at the hope of it all. A charming scene of us, all of us, sitting together and reaching out to take the sukiyaki from a community pan, eating away at it because it is good and it is warm and it is snowing outside; snow littering the windowsill; snow falling in gentle flakes.

Gojyo taking my hand and saying that it was fantastic but oh Gojyo it really wasn't anything special at all. Blush. Do go on.

My hands moving about the kitchen, throwing things away or purifying utensils with the ultimate power of a clergy. If only I had one of them with me…

Maybe they would be inclined to help me out.

So stupid.

And still, it isn't enough, this destruction. My skin veritably crawls with the false promise, the hope pulsing in my blood.

So stupid so stupid so stupid.

More pressure, more pain. So stupid. Sanzo will be angry, but I don't care. All that wasted food.

If he isn't going to eat it, if he isn't going to enjoy it and beam at me while asking for seconds, I am not going to cook it.

I stand there in the center of a kitchen, rendered utterly clean by extinction, and I start shaking again because he isn't there to make me stop. It isn't even raining.

Silence roars in my ears.

And I laugh in the quiet.

* * *

Darkness again. 

Curled in my bed, I can almost ward the offending scent of a half-accomplished goal wafting from the kitchen. The pillow is soft against my skin, wet; however, with moisture I can't explain. How did this happen?

By being pathetic.

Darkness again, but I am not comforted.

I wish it were raining. On those raining nights, he always comes back early because he knows I will be awake and waiting. Waiting for his touches and his lips or perhaps just because I want to play a round of poker. You always win, 'Kai. I don't even know why we play.

If we didn't, Gojyo, I would cry over dinner.

And then he would always tuck me into bed, and I would pretend to sleep. It was nice, knowing he was there.

But it isn't raining tonight. Not even cloudy. If I squint, I can barely make out the faint, shimmering visage of a star absorbing the velvety blackness of the infinite through my ruined eye. I touch it, briefly, and sigh. That twisted tissue of my eye.

Hakkai

Sighs

About

His eye.

Laughter.

And it is quiet again, so quiet I can hear my own thoughts as they swarm around my mind. I need noise; I need Goku to bother me or Sanzo to yell or to feel Gojyo above me. Anything, really, anything menial and meaningless for me to work at just to keep those thoughts pleasant and fine.

Knitting, perhaps. Knitting a scarf for Gojyo that he will never wear, just so I can convince myself of my own selflessness. That would be nice, the melodic ticking of needles like the ticking of the hour.

Oh, but he would never wear it. And this would make me laugh and cry at night.

Origami, perhaps? I can make a crane; I have made several to amuse Goku once or twice because he seemed transfixed with the way the wings would flap.

I should, I think, get up to finish cleaning the kitchen. But the pillow is so soft…

I feel the vibrations of his footsteps on the floor before I hear his hand on the doorknob.

Then a gentle ray of light pierces the darkness, and I know that his tryst is done with. Another woman swayed, another conquest he will reveal in full, animalistic detail to me on some distant night when he has had, perhaps, one too many cups of sake. And I, of course, will smile and listen to him slurring his speech to an incomprehensible drone.

I won't get drunk, because I have an ungodly tolerance for alcohol.

He'll tell me in a hushed whisper about the way she screamed his name, and I will gulp down every thing within my reach just to find a taste of that heady heat. Just something to make my smile feel more real.

And then I will wonder if he tells them, those flocks of thickly painted women, about me.

More sake, please. Thank you, just leave the bottle.

He moves across the floor, and I detect the swaying motion of his body as he goes. He stumbles, but catches himself on the edge of the kitchen counter, mumbling something about shit-hole lighting.

Then he stops.

And I do too.

And, I think, the world might have as well.

I can hear his intake of breath, and my shoulders tighten in response as though I had been caught red-handed. Facing the wall, I wonder if the dim lights from the hallway will catch the shining of my wet cheeks or not. I wonder if Gojyo will even look at me.

He continues to breath deeply, standing perfectly still in the kitchen.

"Hakkai?"

I force my breathing into a steady rhythm and wait for it to pass.

"Hakkai? What's all this in the trashcan? Looks like the stuff you use to make…"

He seems to be taking mental inventory of the discarded food. He'll know, I think. He'll know. Beef, mushrooms, celery, onions, carrots, bamboo, the oil in the sink. That shoyu still on the counter.

And, of course, the most damning evidence of all, the skillet, still waiting on the stove to receive its burden.

Oh Gojyo. Please go back to bed.

Make me happy.

Go back to bed.

"This kinda looks like the stuff for sukiyaki. Why's it all in the trash? Hakkai?"

He's moving closer to me.

There's something in my chest, something starting in my heart but spreading through my veins, reaching my fingertips where I can feel my heartbeat.

Moonlight is too lovely. So beautiful, the shallow pallor on the wall before my eyes. His silhouette scars the surface, the jagged lines tearing the silken tapestry of midnight. No sound, save for my own breathing, heavy and forced, erratic. I feel heady and ill. Salt clings to my face and to my hair and skin and fingers.

So stupid. Crying over dinner.

It's not like I'm his wife…

…I'm not.

His fingertips touch me, and I sob.

It's not like I'm his…

…Please never leave me alone again. I'll be whoever you want me to be.

"Hakkai, I know you're awake. Please, don't do this." His breath, smooth over my face, over my tears. So cold, suddenly, as his hands seek my own and clutch them over the thin sheets. Don't open your eyes. Maybe he'll still believe it.

I hear him sigh, low and slow and perfect across my neck and I shiver and I swear my teeth are clattering together. He must have heard it or something. Surely.

A warm pressure is against my back, and the bed shifts beneath him. The strong arms are around me, pulling me closer and I sob again because I am weak and he is strong and I just can't take it.

I will become whoever you want me to be. A meaningless fuck, a tame housewife, I don't care. Just come back to me every night. Keep holding me every night.

"If you had told me," He begins, his mouth moving against my throat. "If you had told me I would have stayed."

"I know." I whisper, voice still trembling as I cry and cry for no real reason at all. The sound betrays me, but I was never fooling him anyway.

"Will you… will you stay now?" I ask.

Painful. Why is it so painful to be near him?

Oh God. I don't want this. Please get away from me.

I don't want you to leave me ever again.

"I could use some sukiyaki right now." He says.

"You'd have to dig it out of the trash." I tell him.

The moon is so bright, and the stars are too. Would they leave me someday? It would really only take my own hand, a little pressure, and I could have nothing in my face just like before. Then they, the stars, the moon, would be gone and so would he.

I wish I could be buried deep in the earth where the moon would never touch me again.

"That's all right. I just might."

"You just might what?"

Bring me lilies when I go. Do me that, please.

"You know, stay."

Please don't go when I do. I can't stand your touch or your absence.

"Oh."

When the sun rises, he will not be here with me any more, just downstairs with the barmaid or a customer. He will smell like early morning sex, because I can't give that to him and she could. The sukiyaki will be a distant memory, like the snow in a few days will have vanished without a trace. I will have forgotten about the shoyu and he will have forgotten about the woman who cooked him dinner.

How pretty this is. This moment in time; the moon, his hair, my breath, the sheets, the mushrooms in the trash, the floorboards in the night.

He sighs.

"Nothing like sukiyaki from our Hakkai!"

I laugh because I know what he means.

He means, 'Nothing like sukiyaki from a gorgeous woman!'

And I suppose that is me. I will become whatever you want me to become. I promise you. If you just stay with me, I will.

Crying over dinner. So stupid.

I know, I know.

It's not like I'm his housewife. I never wanted that anyway…

Never.

So stupid. You are so stupid.

I know.

OWARI


End file.
